


she cut your hair (and from your lips she drew the hallelujah)

by jpnadia



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Begging, Established Relationship, F/F, Haircuts, Knifeplay, Marking, Orgasm Control, Possessive Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:34:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23856940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jpnadia/pseuds/jpnadia
Summary: She wraps a hand around the muscle just below Gideon’s skull and grips hard. Her fingers dig into the back of Gideon’s neck.Gideon immediately forgets everything in her head. She moans, low and long, until Harrow lets her go.“Andthatis why no one else is going to cut your hair.”
Relationships: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus
Comments: 4
Kudos: 129





	she cut your hair (and from your lips she drew the hallelujah)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dilapidatedcorvid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dilapidatedcorvid/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Glass](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23690023) by [dilapidatedcorvid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dilapidatedcorvid/pseuds/dilapidatedcorvid). 



> This is a bonus epilogue to Glass by dilapidatedcorvid, and it contains spoilers. Please go read Glass first! Because otherwise this isn’t going to make a whole lot of sense.

It’s unusual for Harrow to beat Gideon home, but her boots are lying on the floor next to the door. Gideon moves them idly out of the way and puts her own shoes next to them. She hangs up her jacket in the hall closet and her hat on its hook before walking into the empty kitchen in stocking feet. It’s more unusual when she finds a variety of non-kitchen items arrayed on the counter. Rope, a towel, a comb, clippers, a straight razor.

Gideon steps into the hallway and calls out warily. “Harrow? What’s going on?”

Harrow emerges from the bedroom. “There you are.” As if Gideon is late home. “I’m cutting your hair tonight.” She takes Gideon’s wrist and leads her back into the kitchen. 

“Why?” Gideon reaches up to pull on the hair at the back of her head. It’s getting a little long, but it’s not that bad.

“Three reasons,” says Harrow. “First and foremost, you look like a mangy rat.”

“I can get it cut tomorrow,” Gideon promises wildly. If she’d known it bothered Harrow, she’d never have let her hair get shaggy.

“Second, I like having a hand in your appearance.” Harrow runs a finger down the buttons of Gideon’s shirt, tapping between the second and third buttons. Neither of them can see Harrow’s initials embroidered there, because they’re on the bottom layer of fabric and hidden under the placket. Harrow has chosen and marked every shirt in the row hanging in Gideon’s closet. 

(Gideon has one pre-Harrow shirt left, and she keeps it in the bottom of her underwear drawer. She’s saving it for a special occasion.)

“And third, because of this.” She wraps a hand around the muscle just below Gideon’s skull and grips hard. Her fingers dig into the back of Gideon’s neck.

Gideon immediately forgets everything in her head. She moans, low and long, until Harrow lets her go.

“And that is why no one else is going to cut your hair.”

It takes Gideon several blinks to remember what Harrow is even talking about. “Okay,” she says, at last.

“Good.” Harrow looks her up and down. “Strip.” 

Gideon has never stripped for a haircut before, and she says as much, but she’s already undoing her buttons, scrambling out of her shirt, unhooking suspenders, fumbling with elastic. She normally folds everything as soon as she takes it off, but now, in haste, she drapes everything loosely over the edge of the sink. Harrow has a habit of cutting her out of her clothes, and while their budget supports it, it always makes laundry day a little more complicated.

By the time she lays her socks on top of the pile, a familiar heat is gathering low in her abdomen. They’ve been together for two years. Gideon still isn’t used to this. They have the everyday sex, too, which is nice but doesn’t move mountains. Tonight, like any night when Harrow walks through the door like she’s going to conquer the world, leaving only burning husks of buildings behind her, they’re going to move mountains. 

Harrow sweeps an arm in a ridiculously majestic gesture, considering that she’s inviting Gideon to sit on a kitchen chair. It’s plain wood with a straight back supported by sturdy, unembellished vertical rails.

“Are you going to tie me up?” asks Gideon. It’s not Harrow’s favorite game, but it works for them both because of what it does to Gideon. The rope is right there.

“Maybe,” says Harrow, evasively. She takes the towel and spreads it over Gideon’s shoulders. “I would prefer you to sit very still while I work. Can you do that, Griddle? Will you be good for me?”

She pins the towel in place, tight around Gideon’s throat. “Or do you still want the rope?”

“I’ll be good for you.” Gideon grips the back slats of the chair. At this rate, she’ll be wet all over her thighs and the chair before the haircut’s half over. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s also one of the things Harrow likes best.

Harrow plugs in the electric clippers. “I’m glad.”

Gideon has never had many defenses against Harrow’s fingers in her hair. It’s no surprise that she has to fight the urge to shiver when Harrow combs the hair away from the right side of her head. 

Harrow is saying things, but Gideon can’t quite figure out how to make the language centers of her brain process the words. Not when Harrow is holding her head steady with a firm hand at the base of her skull. The clippers vibrate against her scalp. They’ve been common in the city barbershops for a few years now, but Gideon still isn’t quite used to them. 

She trusts Harrow. Harrow has her. 

As Harrow moves, her elbows jab into Gideon’s back and shoulders. None of the things Harrow is doing have ever affected Gideon like this before, but neither has anyone ever done these things to Gideon’s naked body in their shared kitchen, let alone without having taken off a stitch of their own clothing.

When Harrow lets go of her head to walk behind her, she tenses the muscles in her thighs, pressing them subtly together, looking for friction. She’s already so hot, and Harrow has barely touched her, nothing below the collarbone. It’s just a haircut, and Gideon can already feel her pulse between her legs, demanding attention. She has no idea where this is going. 

The buzz of the electric clippers shuts off abruptly. “I thought I told you to stay  _ still _ .”

Gideon wants to hunch her shoulders, but that’s not staying still. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I won’t do it again.”

“You’d better not,” says Harrow. Her teeth rake along the left side of Gideon’s neck, the side that isn’t currently covered in hair. That’s probably going to bruise. The mark will be in good company; Gideon has a livid red mark on her left breast that she could see if she was allowed to look down. The faded string of hickies running up her right thigh has almost faded.

Harrow combs the hair to the other side of Gideon’s head, digging the metal teeth in, harsh against Gideon's scalp. She takes hold of Gideon’s jaw and turns the clippers back on.

It’s harder to sit still this time. Gideon can feel the path of Harrow’s teeth, stinging on her neck. Harrow’s focused precision lays thick over Gideon’s skin, a palpable thing.

The clippers buzz away, indifferent to Gideon’s predicament. Hair falls over her neck, onto her face. It tickles, but that’s not what makes it hard to stay still. It’s Harrow’s hand, the way her belly brushes against Gideon’s elbow. She’s standing too close.

Gideon casts around desperately, trying to focus on something other than her own arousal. There’s the low murmur of pedestrian traffic outside the window, the harsh rattle of cars. Background noise, distant and indistinct. There’s no shield there, leaving her every nerve exposed.

Harrow blows on her neck, clearing off the hair. The sensation takes hold of her spine. Gideon grasps the chair so hard it creaks. 

"You're being so good," says Harrow. She lets go of Gideon’s jaw and lays the clippers aside.

Gideon whimpers at the loss.

A moment later, Harrow steps into Gideon’s view. She’s holding the straight razor. In spite of her stature, she looms, a formidable presence standing in her Ninth blacks over Gideon’s chair. She draws the wood handle of the closed razor from the tip of Gideon’s chin down between her breasts before swinging her leg over Gideon’s lap. Her skirt rucks up, but she’s still prim Harrow, utterly in control.

All of Gideon’s muscles tense with the effort of staying still when there’s Harrow right there, her body warm and touchable. “You like this, Griddle,” Harrow observes. She flips the razor open and holds the flat against Gideon’s throat.

In lieu of a response, Gideon croaks. She does like this. It’s not part of their everyday repertoire, but it’s a special-occasions mainstay, because every time Harrow puts even the suggestion of a blade against any part of Gideon, from her chin to her hips, Gideon’s brain cuts out and she makes a mess of whatever she’s wearing, or the sheets, or in this case, the kitchen chair.

She swallows, her throat working against cold metal. Harrow wants words, so she makes another attempt. The sound that she ends up making is blurred into meaninglessness.

Evidently, it satisfies Harrow, who swings back off her lap, taking the razor away and flipping it closed. “You can’t get enough.” She nudges Gideon’s knee. “Spread your legs for me.” 

Gideon obeys. What else can she do? Harrow can win any number of concessions from Gideon when she’s in a mood like this.

“So wet for me,” says Harrow. “Do you want me to touch you?”

Gideon marshals her wayward neurons into order. She knows from experience that if she can’t voice her desire, Harrow won’t touch, will leave her empty and needy like this. If she does that, Gideon may die. “Please, Harrow.”

“Is this okay?” Harrow holds up a discreetly ornamental oblong ball of borosilicate glass. Gideon knows exactly where Harrow means to put it; it’s one of her favorites. She loves the weight of it inside her, and it gives Harrow her hands free to do so many other things.

Her vision hazes. “Yes.”

“Remember not to move,” Harrow says, and then her fingers splay out between Gideon’s legs.

Gideon is desperately grateful for the reminder, because all she wants to do is rock up into the touch. She’s absolutely a mess. She’d known that before Harrow touched her, of course, but the way Harrow’s fingers slide almost frictionless at her swollen flesh drives the point home.

There’s blunt, unyielding pressure at her entrance. Harrow’s waiting for her to relax, and Gideon forces her muscles into compliance. Harrow pushes, and then it’s inside her, leaving her full and entirely at her lover's mercy. All the tension implicit in the situation comes out her arms, and the wood of the chair creaks in warning. Fuck, she’s going to break this chair if she’s not careful.

Harrow traces a finger over the corded-taut muscle in Gideon's forearms and laughs before walking around behind Gideon. There’s a click as she flips her blade open again.

The razor scrapes over the nape of Gideon’s neck. Sensation dances down her spine. She breathes through it. Harrow has reduced her to a sculpture, her artist’s chisel refining the lines of Gideon’s form, and Gideon can only strive to live up to the standards Harrow sets for her raw materials.

The touch alternates: razor and comb, razor and comb. Gideon floats on a sea of sensation, tethered only by her hands on the chair back. Harrow’s fingers wiping the hair from her skin tingle everywhere they go.

A forever later, Harrow leans forward to brush her lips against Gideon’s ear. “This is going to sting.”

The aftershave  _ does _ sting, more than it usually does. There’s a scent of mint layered over the scent of alcohol. Gideon suspects Harrow has done this on purpose.

“You’re being so good for me,” Harrow continues, low and intimate. “Do you want me to take you to bed?”

_ Yes _ . Gideon tries to form the words and makes a funny croaking noise instead. When Harrow shoos her out of the chair-- she's left a gleaming wet spot behind her on the seat-- she shakes out her wrists and fingers, gone stiff with the effort of not moving.

“Clean yourself up,” says Harrow imperiously enough that the effect isn’t ruined when she fetches the broom. This is no domestic tableau; Harrow wields the broom like she wields her guns, banishing the drifts of red hair from the tile floor as if they’d personally offended her.

Rather than dithering with a basin, Gideon sticks her head directly under the tap of the kitchen sink. The water is cold, but that’s a blessing. It gives her some of her wits back.

When she’s done, she slicks her wet hair back against her skull. It’s the same thing she does every day, habit, keeps it out of her face even on the rare occasions she isn't wearing her hat. Normally, she'd use the brilliantine, but Harrow doesn't touch her hair as much when it's brilliantined, and her entire head feels tingly. She wants Harrow to touch.

Harrow is waiting for her in the hall. Gideon goes where Harrow beckons, the same way she has always gone exactly where Harrow wants her, ever since that first meeting in the alley behind Dominicus. She can feel Harrow’s eyes on her as she walks naked down the hall to their bedroom.

In the hall mirror, she catches a glimpse of her reflection. Harrow has done a good job with the haircut. She looks much sharper. No surprise there.

She hesitates inside the door to the bedroom. Harrow will put her where she wants her. 

It turns out that Harrow doesn't actually want her in the bed-- she leads her the rest of the way into the room, stops them in the middle of the floor, and closes the door behind her.

"Knees." Harrow pushes down on Gideon’s shoulders. Lightly, because Gideon is already dropping to the floor. "Is this all right?"

"God, Harrow, please." Gideon does squirm now, but she doesn't reach out to touch even though she's nose-to-groin with her lover and can smell her arousal. She's so utterly screwed if Harrow wants her to use her words. Coherency is beyond her, will likely remain out of her reach until Harrow is done with her.

“So handsome, and all mine.” She strokes a proprietary hand over Gideon's hair. A wet tendril falls over Gideon's forehead.

Gideon's muscles clench around the thing inside her. "Please, Harrow," she says, increasingly urgently. She knows from experience that she's not above begging. Spending any length of time under Harrow’s scrutiny wrecks her, and the cold water only bought her a few minutes of clarity.  


Harrow draws up her skirt maddeningly slowly, pulling the straight fall of black cloth and black lace up to reveal her legs and, eventually, a thatch of with black curls. She's not wearing bloomers or anything else underneath it.

The realization hits Gideon like a physical touch. Harrow's been bare under her dress the whole time.

"Can you do this?" asks Harrow. "Or do you need to go have a lie down while you get control of yourself?" She lowers the hem of her skirt again, just an inch, but that's enough for fear to spike in Gideon's heart.

Gideon cannot possibly survive waiting any longer. "Please, Harrow," she says again, and then, for emphasis, " _ Please _ ."

Harrow cups the back of her head and draws her forward, and Gideon presses her face gladly against her lover. God, Harrow's wet too, right there with her. Gideon drowns herself in the scents and textures of Harrow's cunt while Harrow's hands move over her head, adjusting her angle.

She groans and lets Harrow ride her tongue. She'd like to be doing something clever with her fingers as well, but she's powerless against the expanse of Harrow's hips and thighs and buttocks, and she finds herself sliding her palms desperately against these surfaces, clinging on.

"Ah, Griddle." Harrow's hips hitch, belying the controlled tone. “Can you come like this?” She sounds amused, but Gideon can catch the hint of breathlessness in the faint pause in the middle of the question.

It would be the easiest thing in the world for Gideon to grind her hips down, rub herself against her own calf and fall apart. She doesn’t want to stop what she’s doing to answer. She works the tiniest of nods into her rhythm, hears Harrow’s sharp inhale.

“Don’t you dare.” Harrow punctuates it with a sharp tug to Gideon’s newly-shorn hair. "Not until I tell you to."

Gideon makes a low noise. Now that Harrow has explicitly forbidden it, she aches even more.

But she has a job to do. She wants her own pleasure, but she wants to serve Harrow's pleasure more. She focuses on that, on the way that Harrow punctuates each little gasp she makes by digging her nails into Gideon's head and neck. 

"Griddle," says Harrow. She's close. Gideon can feel it in the tension in her thighs, the flutter of her cunt against Gideon's tongue. "Griddle,  _ now _ , ah-- Gideon!"

It's permission, Gideon realizes, thoughts slow as if wading through molasses. She presses herself against her own leg and rubs once, hard, and then it's all over. She surges up against Harrow, following her lover into violent orgasm. The only thing keeping her upright is the wide base she has from kneeling. She’s hanging on to Harrow, Harrow is hanging on to her, and they're both wobbly.

She doesn't let go until Harrow pushes her away, laughing a thin breathless laugh. "Bed?" 

Gideon has to take a few moments to remember how her legs work, and then manages to make it over to the mattress to sprawl.

Harrow joins her, skirt still rucked up, and flings a leg over Gideon's for the skin contact. She recovers first.

"How was it?" Harrow asks, skimming her hand down Gideon's belly. They still have to get the glass ball back out.

"Unbelievably good," says Gideon as Harrow's fingers slip inside her and grip onto the slippery glass. Drawing it back out makes Gideon's hips jerk and abs tremble again, a pale imitation of the orgasm she'd had on her knees.

"Are you still going?" Harrow looks speculative, holding the glass ball gingerly between her fingers. Probably because it's dripping.

Gideon thinks about it. She probably could, if Harrow wanted that. It wouldn't be entirely pleasant, though; she's all swollen and oversensitive, and Harrow seems done. "Not really. Come here?"

Harrow doesn't, not immediately, because she's stripping off her dress. After that's off, though, she presses her naked body close against Gideon's side, and Gideon puts her arm around her.

It is very, very pleasant. Gideon thinks maybe she never wants to move from the bed again, except, twenty minutes later, she realizes they haven't had dinner and she's ravenous. "Ugh," she says. She feels too boneless to mess around with the stove, but-- "Dinner."

Harrow very pointedly doesn't stir. "I made us dinner."

“You don’t cook.”

Harrow cracks her eyes open to cast them to the ceiling. “Fair enough. I  _ acquired _ us dinner. It's in the Frigidaire."

Suddenly suspicious, Gideon asks, "You put a lot of effort into this. Is there an occasion I missed?" She hastily checks her mental calendar. They haven't been able to agree on a date for an anniversary, but the closest possibility they'd discussed was three months ago.

"No occasion," says Harrow. "Sometimes I just want you to know."

She doesn't finish the thought. Harrow is many things, and verbally demonstrative isn't one of them.

After a few moments, she adds: "Also, your hair really was getting out of control, and I wanted to make sure I could do something to make up for it if the cut didn't go well."

Gideon laughs. "I'm never going to let anyone else cut my hair," she reassures her. "Come on. Let's eat."

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve seen the memes where they compile the entire lyrics of Hallelujah from fic titles, and I know it’s kind of a cliche, but the epilogue to Glass includes the phrase “It goes like this” and a few other things that injected both that song and this scene into my head so vividly I didn’t realize it wasn’t actually in the original fic. So I wrote it down.
> 
> Besides, if you can’t be shameless when you’re writing fanfic, what’s the point?
> 
> ______  
> (This fic is also low-key dedicated to and wish fulfillment for everyone who's missing regular haircuts.)


End file.
